prompt: late night phone call
Prompt: late night phone call.
Rating; Kissing plus implied dirty talk over phone and implied masturbation.
Summary: It starts with a phone call that wasn’t meant to be.
A/N: This is just quickly put together; so watch out for lame/cheesy plot and grammar mistakes.=)
…
It’s late, yet she’s in bed with a good book, turning pages instead of slipping off to sleep.
Her phone rings and she takes the call, a distracted hummed, “Mm-hmm,” her eyes still on the exciting passage in the crime book.
“Hey gorgeous,” Lieutenant Flynn’s rough baritone flows through the line, low and throaty. She immediately stops reading, her body strangely aroused at the tone. She’s flustered and forgets to speak; forgets to tell her lieutenant he’s talking to his boss.
Her lieutenant speaks again, his voice slipping beneath her skin even if it should not. There’s no mistaking the vibration to his voice and even if she was unsure then the words that tingle her ear leave no doubt behind; he’s horny, talking about something or other - something she’s not sure what refers to. It’s only when he begins a sentence about his hand and its direction to places she should not be aware of that she coughs over the phone.
“Lieutenant Flynn, wrong number,” she gets out in a strangely high voice.
Abruptly he stops talking, a sound like he’s dropping the phone through the line. She can hear him curse in the background, idiot thrown in among other well-chosen words.
When he’s back on the line he coughs, stutters and then try to make a hasty apology.
It hits her and she cannot stop herself from laughing. He chuckles nervously with her.
“Sorry Captain, I hit the wrong number. Your contact is just right next to well, erm - never mind.”
She’s still laughing, having a hard time stopping.
“I’m sorry,” she giggles over the phone, finding the situation funny.
Her lieutenant gives a laugh as well, still somewhat nervous. Uh, he’s embarrassed she can tell. Mortified, probably.
“It’s alright, Lieutenant Flynn. Just don’t make it a habit, huh!” she teases him, almost hearing the answering smile over the phone.
“Not gonna happen again, Ma’am,” he replies in a suddenly chipper voice, and she’s almost certain he salutes her.
They say their goodbyes and see you in the morning’s. It’s only when she’s trying to read the same sentence in her book for the umpteenth time that she realizes she’s still flustered, even if she laughed and thought the whole situation funny.
It’s been a while since a man called her in the middle of the night, rough tone and flirtatious; maybe that’s the reason. Maybe it’s something completely different. She’s not sure. Only she lays the book aside and crawls under the covers, turning her lamp off. The room is bathed in darkness and the feeling intensifies. A restlessness that she knows but has no intention of acknowledging.
Only her body betrays her, her hand sneaking under her underwear, rests on her hipbone while she wills herself to think of anyone but the man who has just called her by mistake. She really tries to force her brain to conjure up anyone but her lieutenant. But no, her mind is stuck on him, his voice still remarkably vivid in recollection.
She sighs, knowing where this is going and yet she doesn’t want to stop it. It doesn’t really count, she tries to mollify herself.
Her hand’s between her thighs then and she closes her eyes and decides to simply forget everything. Forget that she’s not supposed to be doing this explicit thinking of him; she can’t change it. Really it’s his fault, calling her with that idiotic hoarse voice, talking about getting himself off.
She moans into her pillow, the imagery of him on top vivid, the notion heavy and arousing.
This is so wrong she thinks.
Her phone interrupts her night again and she falters, hand still between her legs. She takes a deep breath, trying to calm her voice down, trying to calm her whole body down. She looks at the display, seeing Lt. Flynn on it again, now feeling slightly guilty as she answers.
“Yes,” her voice is breathy.
“Hey, Captain. Sorry to call you again but there’s been a murder.”
“Oh,” she sits up, forgetting everything prior to this.
“Provenza and Sykes are on scene. I’ll text you the address. Or I could pick you up?”
She hums, already up and on her way to her bathroom, “You won’t mind picking me up?”
“Nope,” he says and she thinks he’s smiling again.
They hang up and she quickly grabs a shower, dressing in a flurry of motion she has perfected. She’s ready when he knocks.
…
Andy has never endured a more awkward car drive than this one. The atmosphere in his car is shimmering with something he tries his damn hardest to make disappear. His hands around the steering wheel are white, clenched to the point of pain. Is it not enough to show up for work in the morning and being embarrassed he called her instead of who he really intended? Apparently not; no, he is forced to endure this right now, without any sleep to soothe the embarrassment away.
He’s cursing himself internally, continuously. His hand had been around his cock the moment she answered, the hum had only registered as a feminine voice and so he had started the whole little telephone dance he usually did when he was horny, blissfully unaware he was talking to his boss.
She had stuttered something and then realization had made him drop the phone on his bed, his hand quickly letting go of his cock. Shit, this was a nightmare.
She had laughed, the tone sweet. He had smiled; it was the last thing he had expected she would do.
Now here they sat, on their way to a crime scene. He could smell her, an underlying scent of skin freshly showered.
Maybe it was the fact that after ending the phone call his hand had once again dwelled under his underwear. Shit. But god damn she was gorgeous; it was not his fault she answered her phone with a throaty hum, not his fault she laughed low in her throat - damn it was not his fault she had worn a skirt the other day that quite sneakily crept into his fantasies.
He looks at her from the corner of his eyes when his eyes are not on the road; she’s scrolling through her phone, giving him directions every once in a while and in between leaving a text for Rusty apparently.
“Mm, turn left at the next intersection.”
He grunts in reply, wondering why she suddenly looks down, flushing red.
She pushes a strand behind her ear and he has a notion that the soft spot behind that ear would be a good place to settle his lips.
He grips harder around the steering wheel.
Shit.
…
Provenza surveys the scene, hands at his hips; what the heck is wrong with these two.
They had arrived in the same car and it is not that unusual. No, what is unusual is the way they keep ignoring each other so blatantly that
they might as well stare at each other outright. Flynn hurriedly goes to Sykes and helps the girl with statements from the onlookers and neighbors standing close by, while the Captain stalks to him and the victim behind the white tent.
Flynn keeps looking over his shoulder, surreptitiously sneaking a look at the Captain. When he is not looking at her he is staring into space with a god awful look.
Provenza sighs; he knows that look. He sighs even deeper.
He looks closely at the Captain; she is talking to the medical examiner but every once in a while her eyes settle on Flynn’s back.
Provenza sighs again; he knows that god damn awful look in her eyes as well.
Idiots, he thinks.
…
Night becomes morning, and morning settles into evening again. The case is not yet solved but they are all going home for the night. He drives her home, both tired. Yet she’s suddenly hyper aware of herself again. It’s the closed space, and being in this small enclosed space with him.
They are twenty minutes from her apartment when he speaks.
“Erm, about that phone call,” he starts and she instantly avoids looking at him, not sure whether she’ll blush or start to laugh again.
Instead she hums, the voice slipping before she can analyze it.
He goes silent and she sneaks a look at him, his face strangely expressive.
“Well,” she says to fill the silence.
This was easier on the phone. Easier with a barrier between them than being next to him now, fiddling with her hands and wondering if he’ll take her fidgeting for what it is.
She wants to ask him who he had meant to call; ask him whether he called this person - this woman - after he hung up; she’s never going to ask though.
Neither of them says anything further; she’s not sure what is worst, the silence or the close proximity. One thing she knows though is that it would be worse to fill the interior of the car with idle talk that would only lead to awkward conversation.
…
They say their goodbyes again and he watches her get out of the car, follows the motion of her walking to her apartment complex, until she disappears into the building.
Shit, he thinks for the billionth time.
This is going to be awkward for an eternity.
He should have said something, anything to relive the tension. He should have joked about it; that would have cleared the air.
Only he had been about to say something funny about the disastrous phone call but his eyes had latched onto her lips and he had lost his train of thoughts.
She had hummed and he had thought about that hum around his cock; needless to say he thought it better not to talk at all. He would merely ruin it further.
He curses himself again.
He slumps, his head on the steering wheel.
God damn, he is an idiot.
Someone knocks on the car window; he’s surprised to find her next to his car. When he rolls the window down she asks him up for dinner, her eyes obscure. He agrees; even if it would be more appropriate and sensible to say no thank you and go home.
…
They are riding her elevator up to her floor. What in the world made her walk back and invite him to dinner? It confounds her; her behavior is far out of logic reach.
He probably doesn’t notice it but his hand is on the small of her back when he ushers her into the elevator. Briefly there as the elevator doors shut close and the box starts to move. Briefly there again when the elevator stops and the doors open again. She does not want to analyze it and yet her heads keep spinning with thoughts and apprehensions.
They small talk; in a way they had not been able to in the car.
It’s only when she’s in the middle of unlocking her door that everything spins out of control. His hand briefly touches her cheek and then he pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. She stops, turns slightly around.
She purses her lips.
He moves closer, eyes dark and obscure.
His lips are soft upon hers, tentative; afraid she will slap him in a second. She brings a hand around his neck and brings him closer, the motion pushing their lips further into each other. It ripples through her, the mold of his mouth against hers, the feel of hands on her hips all of a sudden. He steps closer and she backs into her door, mumbling into his mouth.
This is stupid, she thinks, stupidly wonderful.
Her breath hitch when his lips slide from the corner of her mouth to the side of her jaw, under her jaw as he nibbles before he sucks on a point on the middle of her throat. She turns her head even further, fingers curling into his shirt, trying to bring him closer.
His lips latch onto hers again, and it’s impatient.
She’s quite preoccupied, her body on an overload of emotions. Foremost though is simply the need to kiss him back, to dwell her hands into his hair, to feel his neck and attach herself further to him, to slide hands down the sides of his stomach and feel the slight intake of breath he kisses her with.
The door opens behind her abruptly and she nearly stumbles backward, the arms of her lieutenant around her waist keeping her from falling.
Rusty stands in the doorway, a dumbfounded expression that too quickly evolves into mischief.
…
Idiots, Rusty thinks when he gets over the shock of finding his foster mom snogging her lieutenant. He thinks it with a smile though, knowing this is bound to be embarrassing for the both of them and as such it’s entertaining for him.
“I thought you were stuck in the elevator or something,” Rusty says to Sharon, enjoying the look of slowly appearing horror on her face, matched only by Flynn’s expression. Sharon had texted ten minutes before that she was home; Rusty had already made dinner. He had thought it strange she took so long getting from the parking lot to their apartment. Now he knew why though.
“I can see you were stuck on something else,” he teases her.
She coughs, a red blush on her cheeks. Flynn quickly lets go of her, hands in his pockets, a look that seems too nonchalant.
“Well, I - I invited Lieutenant Flynn here up for dinner,” Sharon says and then sheds her embarrassment as she moves across the threshold, shrugging off her shoes and putting down her bag, making a hand motion over her back to indicate Flynn follow her inside.
The lieutenant moves into the apartment, seeming out of place as he looks around.
Rusty shakes his head, watching Sharon avoiding looking at either of them.
“Are you gonna suck on each other faces throughout dinner? Cuz, then I think I’ll just forgo eating.”
Sharon gives a half nervous laugh, Flynn chuckling rather loudly.
“Rusty,” she says, ushering him towards the table, “We’ll behave.”
“Sure, don't worry kid,” Flynn says.
Rusty rolls his eyes.
…
Dinner is over; he’s standing in her doorway attempting to apologize in some way. For calling her in the middle of the night, for being awkward, for thinking about her with his hand in his pants, for saying yes to dinner, for kissing her outside her apartment, for being an idiot.
It’s a long list and he has no clue where to begin.
She hums, her eyes on his feet as he steps into his shoes.
“It can’t happen again,” she says, eyes still on his feet.
“You’re right,” he agrees wholeheartedly, pauses then, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to - ”
She looks up, her eyes once again obscure, as if she’s weighing him.
He clears his throat, “Well, that’s not true. I did mean to kiss you. I just should have not done so.”
She turns her head slightly to the side.
“I kissed you back,” she says, her voice strangely composed.
“Right,” he agrees only to say something. Why is this so difficult and awkward?
“Who’s right next to me in your contact list?” she asks and it’s so calmly asked that he looks at her for a long time before he grasp the
question. He had not expected it; or the suddenly strange look in her eyes as she regards him.
“Huh,” he says for lack of answer; he can’t tell her it’s merely some casual fling he calls up every now and then when he feels lonely. It sounds too pathetic inside his own head; he’s afraid how it will sound out aloud.
Her lips curve upwards but it’s not really a smile; she knows he heard her question.
He shrugs, “No one important.”
Her eyes narrow.
Wrong answer then; “A casual thing,” he says, trying to judge whether that is answer enough for her.
She gives a little nod but does not seem satisfied.
She follows him outside into the hallway, closing the front door behind her.
It’s really her own fault then, he thinks. Why, it’s an invitation to lean down and kiss her again.
She responds, her fingers at the back of his neck, in the hair at his nape. She hums into his lips and he likes the small tingling.
When he lets up for air, she moves back, a small smile. He smiles and then leaves, knowing it’s either that or staying; staying is out of the question.
…
She’s in bed, once again reading her book. She just needs to read this chapter and then she’ll turn the lights off and go to sleep. She knows however, that the moment she is surrounded by darkness her thoughts will turn to him; and so she’s trying to procrastinate even if she has to force herself to read.
Her phone vibrates.
She looks at the display; a message from Lt. Flynn.
She rolls her eyes but can’t keep a smile from tugging at her lips.
She opens the message.
Grins.
Turns the lights off.
Then texts him back.
…
Idiots, Provenza thinks for the umpteenth time, watching his buddy being so obvious it hurts. Do they really think no one notices that they take coffee breaks simultaneously? That no one notices when he touches her cheek, her arm, the small of her back.
Their smiles are too wide, eyes too enamored. It’s almost sickening.
Provenza considers taking them aside and warning them; if they keep this up even Taylor will notice eventually. But then he watches them, Flynn and his wide Cheshire smile, the Captain and crooked way one side of her mouth curves more than the other. Provenza hasn’t the heart to interrupt their little bubble yet.
Maybe he can get someone else to warn them.
…
End.
Rating; Kissing plus implied dirty talk over phone and implied masturbation.
Summary: It starts with a phone call that wasn’t meant to be.
A/N: This is just quickly put together; so watch out for lame/cheesy plot and grammar mistakes.=)
…
It’s late, yet she’s in bed with a good book, turning pages instead of slipping off to sleep.
Her phone rings and she takes the call, a distracted hummed, “Mm-hmm,” her eyes still on the exciting passage in the crime book.
“Hey gorgeous,” Lieutenant Flynn’s rough baritone flows through the line, low and throaty. She immediately stops reading, her body strangely aroused at the tone. She’s flustered and forgets to speak; forgets to tell her lieutenant he’s talking to his boss.
Her lieutenant speaks again, his voice slipping beneath her skin even if it should not. There’s no mistaking the vibration to his voice and even if she was unsure then the words that tingle her ear leave no doubt behind; he’s horny, talking about something or other - something she’s not sure what refers to. It’s only when he begins a sentence about his hand and its direction to places she should not be aware of that she coughs over the phone.
“Lieutenant Flynn, wrong number,” she gets out in a strangely high voice.
Abruptly he stops talking, a sound like he’s dropping the phone through the line. She can hear him curse in the background, idiot thrown in among other well-chosen words.
When he’s back on the line he coughs, stutters and then try to make a hasty apology.
It hits her and she cannot stop herself from laughing. He chuckles nervously with her.
“Sorry Captain, I hit the wrong number. Your contact is just right next to well, erm - never mind.”
She’s still laughing, having a hard time stopping.
“I’m sorry,” she giggles over the phone, finding the situation funny.
Her lieutenant gives a laugh as well, still somewhat nervous. Uh, he’s embarrassed she can tell. Mortified, probably.
“It’s alright, Lieutenant Flynn. Just don’t make it a habit, huh!” she teases him, almost hearing the answering smile over the phone.
“Not gonna happen again, Ma’am,” he replies in a suddenly chipper voice, and she’s almost certain he salutes her.
They say their goodbyes and see you in the morning’s. It’s only when she’s trying to read the same sentence in her book for the umpteenth time that she realizes she’s still flustered, even if she laughed and thought the whole situation funny.
It’s been a while since a man called her in the middle of the night, rough tone and flirtatious; maybe that’s the reason. Maybe it’s something completely different. She’s not sure. Only she lays the book aside and crawls under the covers, turning her lamp off. The room is bathed in darkness and the feeling intensifies. A restlessness that she knows but has no intention of acknowledging.
Only her body betrays her, her hand sneaking under her underwear, rests on her hipbone while she wills herself to think of anyone but the man who has just called her by mistake. She really tries to force her brain to conjure up anyone but her lieutenant. But no, her mind is stuck on him, his voice still remarkably vivid in recollection.
She sighs, knowing where this is going and yet she doesn’t want to stop it. It doesn’t really count, she tries to mollify herself.
Her hand’s between her thighs then and she closes her eyes and decides to simply forget everything. Forget that she’s not supposed to be doing this explicit thinking of him; she can’t change it. Really it’s his fault, calling her with that idiotic hoarse voice, talking about getting himself off.
She moans into her pillow, the imagery of him on top vivid, the notion heavy and arousing.
This is so wrong she thinks.
Her phone interrupts her night again and she falters, hand still between her legs. She takes a deep breath, trying to calm her voice down, trying to calm her whole body down. She looks at the display, seeing Lt. Flynn on it again, now feeling slightly guilty as she answers.
“Yes,” her voice is breathy.
“Hey, Captain. Sorry to call you again but there’s been a murder.”
“Oh,” she sits up, forgetting everything prior to this.
“Provenza and Sykes are on scene. I’ll text you the address. Or I could pick you up?”
She hums, already up and on her way to her bathroom, “You won’t mind picking me up?”
“Nope,” he says and she thinks he’s smiling again.
They hang up and she quickly grabs a shower, dressing in a flurry of motion she has perfected. She’s ready when he knocks.
…
Andy has never endured a more awkward car drive than this one. The atmosphere in his car is shimmering with something he tries his damn hardest to make disappear. His hands around the steering wheel are white, clenched to the point of pain. Is it not enough to show up for work in the morning and being embarrassed he called her instead of who he really intended? Apparently not; no, he is forced to endure this right now, without any sleep to soothe the embarrassment away.
He’s cursing himself internally, continuously. His hand had been around his cock the moment she answered, the hum had only registered as a feminine voice and so he had started the whole little telephone dance he usually did when he was horny, blissfully unaware he was talking to his boss.
She had stuttered something and then realization had made him drop the phone on his bed, his hand quickly letting go of his cock. Shit, this was a nightmare.
She had laughed, the tone sweet. He had smiled; it was the last thing he had expected she would do.
Now here they sat, on their way to a crime scene. He could smell her, an underlying scent of skin freshly showered.
Maybe it was the fact that after ending the phone call his hand had once again dwelled under his underwear. Shit. But god damn she was gorgeous; it was not his fault she answered her phone with a throaty hum, not his fault she laughed low in her throat - damn it was not his fault she had worn a skirt the other day that quite sneakily crept into his fantasies.
He looks at her from the corner of his eyes when his eyes are not on the road; she’s scrolling through her phone, giving him directions every once in a while and in between leaving a text for Rusty apparently.
“Mm, turn left at the next intersection.”
He grunts in reply, wondering why she suddenly looks down, flushing red.
She pushes a strand behind her ear and he has a notion that the soft spot behind that ear would be a good place to settle his lips.
He grips harder around the steering wheel.
Shit.
…
Provenza surveys the scene, hands at his hips; what the heck is wrong with these two.
They had arrived in the same car and it is not that unusual. No, what is unusual is the way they keep ignoring each other so blatantly that
they might as well stare at each other outright. Flynn hurriedly goes to Sykes and helps the girl with statements from the onlookers and neighbors standing close by, while the Captain stalks to him and the victim behind the white tent.
Flynn keeps looking over his shoulder, surreptitiously sneaking a look at the Captain. When he is not looking at her he is staring into space with a god awful look.
Provenza sighs; he knows that look. He sighs even deeper.
He looks closely at the Captain; she is talking to the medical examiner but every once in a while her eyes settle on Flynn’s back.
Provenza sighs again; he knows that god damn awful look in her eyes as well.
Idiots, he thinks.
…
Night becomes morning, and morning settles into evening again. The case is not yet solved but they are all going home for the night. He drives her home, both tired. Yet she’s suddenly hyper aware of herself again. It’s the closed space, and being in this small enclosed space with him.
They are twenty minutes from her apartment when he speaks.
“Erm, about that phone call,” he starts and she instantly avoids looking at him, not sure whether she’ll blush or start to laugh again.
Instead she hums, the voice slipping before she can analyze it.
He goes silent and she sneaks a look at him, his face strangely expressive.
“Well,” she says to fill the silence.
This was easier on the phone. Easier with a barrier between them than being next to him now, fiddling with her hands and wondering if he’ll take her fidgeting for what it is.
She wants to ask him who he had meant to call; ask him whether he called this person - this woman - after he hung up; she’s never going to ask though.
Neither of them says anything further; she’s not sure what is worst, the silence or the close proximity. One thing she knows though is that it would be worse to fill the interior of the car with idle talk that would only lead to awkward conversation.
…
They say their goodbyes again and he watches her get out of the car, follows the motion of her walking to her apartment complex, until she disappears into the building.
Shit, he thinks for the billionth time.
This is going to be awkward for an eternity.
He should have said something, anything to relive the tension. He should have joked about it; that would have cleared the air.
Only he had been about to say something funny about the disastrous phone call but his eyes had latched onto her lips and he had lost his train of thoughts.
She had hummed and he had thought about that hum around his cock; needless to say he thought it better not to talk at all. He would merely ruin it further.
He curses himself again.
He slumps, his head on the steering wheel.
God damn, he is an idiot.
Someone knocks on the car window; he’s surprised to find her next to his car. When he rolls the window down she asks him up for dinner, her eyes obscure. He agrees; even if it would be more appropriate and sensible to say no thank you and go home.
…
They are riding her elevator up to her floor. What in the world made her walk back and invite him to dinner? It confounds her; her behavior is far out of logic reach.
He probably doesn’t notice it but his hand is on the small of her back when he ushers her into the elevator. Briefly there as the elevator doors shut close and the box starts to move. Briefly there again when the elevator stops and the doors open again. She does not want to analyze it and yet her heads keep spinning with thoughts and apprehensions.
They small talk; in a way they had not been able to in the car.
It’s only when she’s in the middle of unlocking her door that everything spins out of control. His hand briefly touches her cheek and then he pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. She stops, turns slightly around.
She purses her lips.
He moves closer, eyes dark and obscure.
His lips are soft upon hers, tentative; afraid she will slap him in a second. She brings a hand around his neck and brings him closer, the motion pushing their lips further into each other. It ripples through her, the mold of his mouth against hers, the feel of hands on her hips all of a sudden. He steps closer and she backs into her door, mumbling into his mouth.
This is stupid, she thinks, stupidly wonderful.
Her breath hitch when his lips slide from the corner of her mouth to the side of her jaw, under her jaw as he nibbles before he sucks on a point on the middle of her throat. She turns her head even further, fingers curling into his shirt, trying to bring him closer.
His lips latch onto hers again, and it’s impatient.
She’s quite preoccupied, her body on an overload of emotions. Foremost though is simply the need to kiss him back, to dwell her hands into his hair, to feel his neck and attach herself further to him, to slide hands down the sides of his stomach and feel the slight intake of breath he kisses her with.
The door opens behind her abruptly and she nearly stumbles backward, the arms of her lieutenant around her waist keeping her from falling.
Rusty stands in the doorway, a dumbfounded expression that too quickly evolves into mischief.
…
Idiots, Rusty thinks when he gets over the shock of finding his foster mom snogging her lieutenant. He thinks it with a smile though, knowing this is bound to be embarrassing for the both of them and as such it’s entertaining for him.
“I thought you were stuck in the elevator or something,” Rusty says to Sharon, enjoying the look of slowly appearing horror on her face, matched only by Flynn’s expression. Sharon had texted ten minutes before that she was home; Rusty had already made dinner. He had thought it strange she took so long getting from the parking lot to their apartment. Now he knew why though.
“I can see you were stuck on something else,” he teases her.
She coughs, a red blush on her cheeks. Flynn quickly lets go of her, hands in his pockets, a look that seems too nonchalant.
“Well, I - I invited Lieutenant Flynn here up for dinner,” Sharon says and then sheds her embarrassment as she moves across the threshold, shrugging off her shoes and putting down her bag, making a hand motion over her back to indicate Flynn follow her inside.
The lieutenant moves into the apartment, seeming out of place as he looks around.
Rusty shakes his head, watching Sharon avoiding looking at either of them.
“Are you gonna suck on each other faces throughout dinner? Cuz, then I think I’ll just forgo eating.”
Sharon gives a half nervous laugh, Flynn chuckling rather loudly.
“Rusty,” she says, ushering him towards the table, “We’ll behave.”
“Sure, don't worry kid,” Flynn says.
Rusty rolls his eyes.
…
Dinner is over; he’s standing in her doorway attempting to apologize in some way. For calling her in the middle of the night, for being awkward, for thinking about her with his hand in his pants, for saying yes to dinner, for kissing her outside her apartment, for being an idiot.
It’s a long list and he has no clue where to begin.
She hums, her eyes on his feet as he steps into his shoes.
“It can’t happen again,” she says, eyes still on his feet.
“You’re right,” he agrees wholeheartedly, pauses then, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to - ”
She looks up, her eyes once again obscure, as if she’s weighing him.
He clears his throat, “Well, that’s not true. I did mean to kiss you. I just should have not done so.”
She turns her head slightly to the side.
“I kissed you back,” she says, her voice strangely composed.
“Right,” he agrees only to say something. Why is this so difficult and awkward?
“Who’s right next to me in your contact list?” she asks and it’s so calmly asked that he looks at her for a long time before he grasp the
question. He had not expected it; or the suddenly strange look in her eyes as she regards him.
“Huh,” he says for lack of answer; he can’t tell her it’s merely some casual fling he calls up every now and then when he feels lonely. It sounds too pathetic inside his own head; he’s afraid how it will sound out aloud.
Her lips curve upwards but it’s not really a smile; she knows he heard her question.
He shrugs, “No one important.”
Her eyes narrow.
Wrong answer then; “A casual thing,” he says, trying to judge whether that is answer enough for her.
She gives a little nod but does not seem satisfied.
She follows him outside into the hallway, closing the front door behind her.
It’s really her own fault then, he thinks. Why, it’s an invitation to lean down and kiss her again.
She responds, her fingers at the back of his neck, in the hair at his nape. She hums into his lips and he likes the small tingling.
When he lets up for air, she moves back, a small smile. He smiles and then leaves, knowing it’s either that or staying; staying is out of the question.
…
She’s in bed, once again reading her book. She just needs to read this chapter and then she’ll turn the lights off and go to sleep. She knows however, that the moment she is surrounded by darkness her thoughts will turn to him; and so she’s trying to procrastinate even if she has to force herself to read.
Her phone vibrates.
She looks at the display; a message from Lt. Flynn.
She rolls her eyes but can’t keep a smile from tugging at her lips.
She opens the message.
Grins.
Turns the lights off.
Then texts him back.
…
Idiots, Provenza thinks for the umpteenth time, watching his buddy being so obvious it hurts. Do they really think no one notices that they take coffee breaks simultaneously? That no one notices when he touches her cheek, her arm, the small of her back.
Their smiles are too wide, eyes too enamored. It’s almost sickening.
Provenza considers taking them aside and warning them; if they keep this up even Taylor will notice eventually. But then he watches them, Flynn and his wide Cheshire smile, the Captain and crooked way one side of her mouth curves more than the other. Provenza hasn’t the heart to interrupt their little bubble yet.
Maybe he can get someone else to warn them.
…
End.